Future
by Error Code 401
Summary: Ever so slowly, it becomes easier to talk to her. To laugh with her. Because she's one of them, Jedi or not. And they all know it.


"RC-2444," he said. "Ma'am."

The Jedi sighed. "Name, Sergeant," she said exasperatedly. "I asked for your name, not your number. I don't do numbers."

"I -"

"I'm not going to lead a squad into a mission that they might not come out from alive if I don't know their names."

His face heated. "Argo."

"Ender."

"Dom."

"Jud."

The Jedi looked at them for a split second, her lips moving in silent words.

"You're the leader, correct?" she asked Argo.

His face heated even more. "No. You are."

Her eyes closed for two beats, then opened again, an annoyed flash in the usually mild brown eyes.

"I'd like to explain something," the Jedi said quietly. "I know next to nothing about warfare. But you know. So, yes, I am your 'general'; but if you see me making me a stupid decision, whether it be tactical or not, _stop me_." Her gaze swept over the entire squad. "Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," they chorused.

"Again with the _ma'am_ , eh?" she said drily.

"What would you rather us call you?" Ender muttered under his breath. "Sir?"

"Hilarious. Let me guess: you're the comic relief of the group."

Argo gave Ender a quick jab in the side, wishing that A) they had had their helmets on, B) Ender had kept his mouth shut, or C) both.

Ender said innocently, completely unfazed, "Actually, that would be Dom. I'm just the sarcastic bystander."

Jud looked at Ender, his dark eyes clearly saying _Shut up_.

But the Jedi didn't seem to be chagrined. In fact, judging by the slight quirk of the mouth, she almost seemed . . . amused.

"I stand corrected," she said.

For a second, it almost seemed as if she were about to say more; but no words came out except for "Buckets on."

Argo slid his on, snapped it in place - all in perfect synchronicity with the rest of the squad.

Her brown eyes seemed to watch them with . . . Was it curiosity?

* * *

They had completed the mission. Rescued the senator.

Stayed alive.

The Jedi was silent, absently taking apart a blaster and then reassembling it. Shlick. Click. Shlick. Click.

Aside from the "good job" she had tossed at them, aside from the "thanks" and the "you should get a pay raise", she had not spoken another word.

"Ma'am?" Argo tried.

"Yeah?"

Shlick. Click. Shlick. Click.

"What -" He awkwardly cleared his throat. "What's wrong?"

She just looked at him, her brown eyes distant. She did not say anything, just looked at him.

Finally, she spoke, her words soft:

"Nothing. It's just . . . that's the first time I've killed someone."

 _Oh._

"I didn't - I guess I wasn't sure what to expect. I didn't think it would be so . . . easy. A swipe of the lightsaber, a squeeze of the trigger, then . . . gone."

"If it makes you feel better," Argo said carefully, "it was us or them. You made the right call."

"I know. But . . . I'm a Healer." A quiet laugh punctuated that. "I keep thinking about how easy it was to kill, to destroy. I did that. I did that, when I know how hard it is to save." She looked at him with her head tilted to the side, short brown hair slapping her cheeks. "So . . . us or them."

Argo shifted uncomfortably. Really, what could he say? They were from two different parts of life, two different roles.

The Jedi said quietly, "I'm not feeling sorry for him, if that's what you're thinking. Maybe I should. I don't know. But I'm just wondering . . . I . . ." Her voice trailed off, and she went back to the blaster.

Shlick. Click. Shlick. Click.

"Ma'am?" Dom said suddenly. "We don't get paid."

Ender had a dancing glint in his eyes that Argo had seen too often when he and Dom got into their roles. "Yeah, so any pay raise would be appreciated. Do you think you could get them to pay us in cheffa cake? Or - even better - _uj'alayi_?"

She raised an eyebrow. "What the-"

"Uj cake," Jud explained. "Our sergeant would sometimes get it for us."

Her mouth dropped. "You can speak!" she exclaimed with put-upon shock.

Dom laughed. Ender snickered. Jud rolled his eyes. A faint smile flickered across Argo's face.

And for a brief second, they forgot about her rank.

* * *

They went on more missions together. Saved people. Eliminated others.

Argo, Dom, Ender, and Jud watched as she eventually stopped having faded eyes when she killed.

"I suppose it's 'un-Jedi-like' or me," she said casually one night. "That I don't have this high and golden regard for all sentient life. Not that I'm going on killing rampages or anything, but you know what I mean."

And they did. She had shared off-hand stories of her childhood, and they had pieced it together. Most of it.

Aside from that one time with the names, she never pressed when they didn't want to share something, so they didn't either. It was an unspoken agreement.

"The Jedi - they think they're so righteous, so holy." She stared off at nothing, as she often did. "And they own an army of slaves in all but name."

Argo felt uncomfortable - he always did when she talked like this - and he could tell that the rest did, too.

"We're all guilty," she said absently. "Even me. Especially me."

Then she smiled. It was strange how she did that: go from a distant, soft-spoken cadence to a sparkling smile. "But I'm just here to make sure that you men don't go and get yourself killed, I s'pose."

"Aw, General," Ender drawled, "you're too kind. Sure you're not just bored?"

She gave him a mock scowl. "Quiet, you."

Ender smirked and barked, "Sir, yes, sir!"

She threw her lightsaber at him. Her laughter did not affect her aim.

* * *

She would constantly ask them what the different words they used meant. Upon learning the translations of some particularly nasty swear words she roared with laughter.

"So I _shouldn't_ call _any_ of the Null ARCs ' _gar shab'ika_ '?" she asked, her eyes wide with fake innocence.

"No," Argo said.

"What about their sergeant?"

"No."

"What about yours?"

"No!"

She laughed.

It was easier now to laugh with her.

* * *

Another year. Argo was careful to keep all expression from his face. It hadn't affected him in the slightest. Outwardly.

But his squad, his brothers, they knew him. They knew what day it was.

Jud looked almost apologetic whenever he looked at Argo.

Ender kept tossing him sympathetic glances.

And Dom . . . fierfek, Dom.

The Jedi noticed, of course. She always did.

"Something wrong, Argo?"

"It's nothing," he muttered. "Ma'am."

"Oi! We're back to _ma'am_ , now?"

Argo didn't say anything.

A hand was gently laid on his arm. "You don't have to tell if you don't want to."

"No sense not to. You'll find out eventually." Argo's right hand clenched and unclenched.

"You really don't have to if -"

"RC-1104," Argo said flatly, no emotion whatsoever. "Live ordnance rounds. It was my order - and he died."

She was silent.

Argo laugh, this bitter, choking sound. "His favorite color was orange, you know. Orange. _Shereshoy_. A lust for life and a need to not miss a second. And he died. He died when he was eight. Sixteen. Whatever."

"What was his name?"

The question was sudden, but Argo had been almost expecting it. She was like that.

"Forry."

"Forry. May he rest in the _manda_."

Argo raised an eyebrow. "You allowed to say that sort of thing?"

She tilted back her head and laughed. "Argo, I've broken so many laws that I lost count. I don't think I'm going to be kicked off Team Jedi for talking Mando." A shadow crossed her face, and words so softly spoken that Argo wondered if he had imagined them whispered, "I wish it would."

She had told them once that she was only in it for them. Them and the rest of their brothers.

"No one else," she had said vehemently. "Not the my fellow Jedi, not the civilians, and certainly not the _shabla_ Republic."

It had been the first time they had ever heard her use a Mandalorian curse word in context.

It had not been the last.

* * *

She got into arguments with other Jedi.

Stories circulated around the barracks of the different times she had verbally roasted generals and commanders, whether publicly or privately.

She usually did it publicly.

They laughed at the stories, but they knew all of the arguments began when a Jedi A) made a deprecating remark about clones or B) admonished her about her growing attachment towards her men.

While she usually had an easy smile and warm eyes, when you made her mad . . . she was a completely different person. She was ice.

They had hesitantly brought it up once. She laughed.

"There is no way," she said with a roll of her eyes, "that I will just sit by and let a bunch of priests insult my boys."

She said _my_.

And they couldn't help but feel a warm glow of pride at those words.

* * *

Another successful mission with the general they had privately begun to think of as _theirs_.

Dom no longer held back his jokes for fear of being considered inappropriate. Ender actually let down his sarcastic veneer once in awhile to let her see the real him. Jud actually offered ideas and plans, soft-spoken, but no longer hesitant. He knew she would listen to him.

Argo didn't feel cold anymore when the anniversary of Forry's death rolled along.

She was not always with them, but they had settled into a rhythm when she was.

It was nice.

* * *

" _Execute Order 66."_

Argo's blood froze.

Had to be a mistake. Don't think about it; ask for a confirmation, then you can tell the general and have a laugh about it, a nice long -

The order was confirmed.

"What do we do?" Jud demanded. "Argo? Argo!"

So attuned to their feelings, she was, Argo reflected. Always knew. Always knew.

"What's wrong?"

Dom was on the verge of panicking. Argo could hear it in his breath. Short breath in, short breath out, wheeze, wheeze, wheeze.

Ender was shaking.

Jud was asking Argo, "Orders? Sarge?"

Shoulders shaking.

No. Can't. She's the general. She's their friend.

Have to. Orders. A soldier, and soldiers are born to follow orders.

Orders are open to interpretation.

Not this one. Have to shoot. Have to kill.

Can't. Can't.

"Argo?" the Jedi asked again, her voice concerned. "Jud? Ender? Dom? What's going on?

"I -"

"Fierfek, just tell me," she said, hand on her hip.

"Order 66," Argo managed to say.

She blinked.

"Oh," she said softly.

Just a small word, nothing else. But it burned worse than a shout.

"Well, then," she said calmly, as if this was only another mission, only another ordinary, mundane order. "This is a predicament."

"No."

Another small word, this time from Jud.

Jud had never refused an order before, never gone blatantly against the rules.

"No," he repeated, and that one word was the harshest voice Argo had ever heard him use.

"It's a mistake. It has to be. No."

She sighed. "Yes."

Argo could barely breathe.

"What?" he croaked.

She grasped his wrist and pushed his blaster into his grip. Then she raised it to her chest, fingers firmly encircling the barrel.

"Shoot."

Argo did not move, just stared at her, the blank stare of a helmet; but she knew what he was thinking; she knew what he was feeling.

"Shoot," she repeated.

"No."

"Shoot."

"No!"

"Sergeant RC-2444," she snapped, eyes flashing, "this is an _order_."

She had never used that tone, that icy inflection, with any of them.

A crack filled the air.

The only feeling Argo was able to muster was the relief Forry had not been there to witness her death, his betrayal.

Relief that he would never know the lies they had been born to serve.

* * *

Alone at the barracks.

Jud, Dom, and Ender were avoiding him, avoiding his gaze.

He didn't blame them.

On his bunk, muscles rigid, no movement.

He screamed in the privacy of his armor, cursed in his helmet.

He whispered her name when it ended.

Argo could still hear her voice saying cheerfully "It means future. Which means that this war will eventually end, and I'll be free to drop out of the Order, maybe own a farm." She had laughed, then, and said, "Who knows? Maybe I'll own it with the four of you."

She would never own a farm.

They would never leave the GAR (or IA, Argo supposed).

"Myria," he whispered. Over and over. Myria. Future. But there was no future for her, for him, for anyone.

They would be in service until the day they died.

Hooray for accelerated-aging.

Were his cheeks . . . wet?

* * *

 **A/N: Okay, okay, kill me. But we all know that it couldn't end happily.**

 **Leave a review!**


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